In Pace Requiescat
by Demented Inu
Summary: The story of Alfred's life in Tombstone, AZ. Doc Holliday/USA.
1. Go West, Young Man

The only possibly regrettable aspect about what he'd begun calling the "Great Move Westward" was the unbearable heat. New England (the name chosen by a group of nitwits and one Mr. Adams scrabbling for "independence" – never independent, not with _that_ name) had been cool, comforting; though sometimes he remembered Mr. Hancock (signature consuming the parchment as though giving England the finger) wiping his face with his sleeves and complaining about how "bleeding hot" it was.

Well. Mr. Hancock had obviously never been out west.

Not that Alfred was complaining (much). He could take the hellish weather if it meant these wide-open graveyard skies, the vast horizons spread before him in welcome, beautifully painted sunsets across the golden plains, the horses and wildlife and the smell of coal and steel where the railroads were being built.

Okay, not so much here.

Tombstone, Arizona was a small town, geographically speaking. Small enough that Alfred didn't know on which part of himself it was located. It made up for it enough in population, which was quite sizable thanks to the discovery of silver, which had brought in a flood of those longing to strike it rich – but the population seemed young even it was booming, like it didn't quite know the town yet, and the buildings were run-down (even the new ones); Hell, he wasn't even sure if the town had a sheriff. But he was here now, sitting on a haystack in the back of a wagon, squinting in the bright hot sun (the annexation of Texas made each streak of sun glare on his new glasses), hands coming up to shade them, wishing beyond wishing that he had one of those fancy Stetsons.

Not to mention that his mouth had become a desert in this damn Western heat; he thought he even tasted sand.

"'Scuse me," he spoke up. "This is good," he told the wagon driver, trying to sound polite. "You can stop here."

The driver turned slightly, tugging on the reins a bit to pull to a stop. The horses made minimal protest, but the woman turned to glance at him as if she was sorry he had to go so soon. "Surprised a strappin' young man like yourself don't got a horse o' your own." Her voice held a flirtatious note as she eyed him from under the brim of her hat. Alfred smiled at her as he hopped down from the wagon, spurs – that he didn't need, they were a gift and he didn't want to be rude – jingling on his boots.

"It ain't for lack of tryin'," he told her truthfully, picking up on her accent with the ease of a native. "Just younger than I look, is all."

_Older than I look, _he told himself inwardly. _But she'd never believe that, not in a million years._

She smiled back. "Well, if it's money you're lackin', here's a good place to get it as any." His heart missed a beat when she waved. "Good luck, stranger."

With a snap of her reins, she was off again. He realized he'd forgotten to thank her for the ride here. Oh well, he supposed, and turned to face the town, wiping sweat and dust from his brow. His people seemed happy enough out here. The men bore dusty faces and wide-brimmed hats, women fanning themselves politely in their bustles and shapely dresses.

_I wonder if they know how few of them are going to get any money out here, _he wondered, but mostly he thought, _I wonder where I can get some water._

Also, _Boy, is it crowded _crossed his mind at one point, because it was. He kept bumping into people, apologizing profusely, had to dodge a speeding horse at one point before he got run down. This expansion business was doing him good, but it was getting a bit ridiculous, sometimes. All the talk of gold and silver and boomtowns and sudden fortune – it gave his people a false hope, disappointment, and crowded Western cities.

Oh. Right. And it was_ hot_.

He fanned himself with his hand as he made his way to the shade of an overhang. A group of working girls giggled and waved at him, their hair up in ringlets, corsets tightening up their torsos; the dark-haired one lowered her lashes and even bent toward him a bit, so her breasts were more visible. Alfred swallowed, face warm, and only gave them a nod of greeting.

The redhead twittered, "Look, Mary Lou, he's blushing!" and they all giggled before he finally sauntered over to them, annoyed and flustered.

Somehow, he managed to remember his manners, and he let himself smile politely. "Can I help you ladies with something?" Unfortunately, his accent had dropped back into his usual New Yorker one.

The busty brunette smirked. "Would you like to?" They all went into giggles again while Alfred's glasses steamed up from the force of his blush. He coughed, and removed them to wipe off the lenses.

"Oh, we were just playin'," one of the two blondes said through a wide smile and put her slender arm through his own. A cloud of perfume seemed to waft around her like dust, so Alfred had to hold his breath a little as she leaned in close. "Not often we get handsome rich strangers in Tombstone. Most of 'em come here hopin' to strike it rich, y'see, so a good number of 'em are dirt poor… really too bad, in our business."

Her breath had the smell of alcohol when she spoke close to his face. "Well," she added, "except that Earp fella. But he's got his wife, anyway. He ain't any fun."

Alfred paused and looked to her. "Earp?" he echoed, remembering the name from somewhere. He almost felt bad about forgetting; these were his people, for God's sake, how could he just forget? But all this expansion, this great move west (growing taller than England could've ever imagined), it made him struggle for his mind and memory to keep up. Still, the name nagged at his brain until something finally clicked.

"You mean… Wyatt Earp?" he clarified. "That lawman from Kansas?" Alfred did keep up with the Earp brothers – Wyatt, Virgil, and Morgan, if he remembered correctly – but he didn't think they'd be here. Wyatt Earp was simply too _big_ for this little boomtown.

But…. "The very same," the woman told him. "Came on over here with his family. Too bad he's married." The girls twittered again; Alfred's head reeled. Wyatt Earp? Here?

_The_ Wyatt Earp?

"I think he just went in there if you wanna see him," the other blonde said, pointing at the door to his left.

Alfred looked to the sign above, reading simply "Oriental." The door was red and had bizarre carvings on it - even the outside had a feel like one of Yao's bars.

"Can't go in there."

The girl smiled. "Why not?"

"I ain't of age." He wasn't, not by anyone's standards. To England, America was close to one-hundred, and still a child of a nation. To these girls, to his President and people, he was only about fourteen years old, despite his height, and this proved quite frustrating in these sorts of situations.

Of course, he wound up going in anyway. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back, right?

For something resembling a saloon, it was very empty, with only a scarce few men in the corner, and he remembered that this bar was going out of business. A shame, really, because it was a nice enough atmosphere, and the bartender kept wiping glasses optimistically, though his eyes kept darting over to the men in the corner.

Curious, he did as well, even took a few steps in when the barkeep didn't protest to his presence. The tallest man – with dark hair, a dark hat, a mustache, and narrow suspecting eyes – had his face close to the shortest man's (fat and shaking with a bleeding mouth and small watery eyes). Playing cards lay spread across the table amongst the half-full glasses of beer, the empty shot glasses of whiskey.

But it wasn't the poker they were arguing about, Alfred realized. The tall man hit the shorter one across the face, hissing, "You gonna say something or just stand there 'n' bleed?"

And Alfred felt a coldness trickle through his veins, exciting him to a point of trembling. _This… this_, Alfred thought, _this is how the country should be run_. _No mercy, just like England taught me._

The fat man was thrown out of the bar, but the tall and dark one wiped his forehead with the cuff of his sleeve, then tipped his hat to the bartender. When his eyes fell on Alfred, there was a long pause.

"Boy, this is no place for kids," he said seriously, nudging him back outside. "Likely gonna get yourself hurt if you're not careful."

Alfred couldn't help but feel the grin pull at his face as he turned back around. "You're Wyatt Earp, ain't you?" The man paused, eyed him; stoic-looking, like… like one of England's knights or one of Greece's warriors, or…. Truly, he looked like a hero would look. America was grinning at him like an idiot, and Wyatt tugged the brim of his hat down as if to hide his eyes.

"'Fraid so," he replied. "Listen, kid, I'm not in that business anymore. Law isn't for me. I'm retired, so you can just quit that grinnin' of yours. I'm just here for the money, just like everyone-"

"You ain't gonna find any."

Wyatt – can you believe it? Wyatt Earp! – rose his eyebrows at him. He had nice thick eyebrows, like England. "And how d'you reckon that?"

Alfred put his hands up, like France in surrender. "I'm not saying you ain't gonna live a fine life," he specified. "Just… you probably ain't gonna find any silver. Besides, it's not your style. You probably wanna find some money, settle down with your wife, have some kids?" He shook his head. "Won't be happy like that. You like adventure, just like me."

Wyatt gave him a look of amusement. "Where are your parents anyway, speaking of adventure? Ain't your mama looking for you somewhere?"

"Oh, I don't got parents." _Not unless you count England_, he added silently, _and even then, I pretty much disowned myself after 1776_. He didn't want to look foolish in front of Wyatt Earp, though, so he decided to keep his trap shut about the whole 'nation' thing for the time being. "Well… I get along okay by myself, anyway. Don't need parents."

One of those bushy brows went up in an 'uh-huh' look. "And you're takin' care of yourself?" Alfred nodded and thought, _More than you know_. "You're only, what, sixteen?"

"N-no," Alfred laughed. "No, I'm _fourteen_. That's why I don't got a horse, sir."

"Awful tall for a fourteen-year-old…"

He grinned. Even for his round, sort of babyish face, he knew he was taller than he should be for his age, and loved to think about that. Taller than England, taller than France; buying all of that Louisiana Territory had apparently been a smart move on Jefferson's part, all of this beloved Westward Expansion. He'd grown a good three inches from that, at the very least.

"Guess I'm just lucky that way."

For a long moment, he still couldn't believe he was talking to Wyatt Earp. Most of the "important" or "famous" Americans Alfred got to speak to in person were in his higher, presidential government. Never had he met one of his everyday heroes like this, not face-to-face. Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Lincoln – God, but it still stung to think about Lincoln – they were important. Stoic. Necessary.

The Earp brothers were just as much so, and it showed as Wyatt cocked a smile at him. "C'mon, kid," he said, motioning to his horse. "Let's get you out of the sun before you have a stroke. I have to meet my brothers anyway."

Grinning, Alfred followed him, feeling that maybe this little boomtown had a lot more to offer than silver after all.


	2. Second Shadow

The saloon was busier, if not nicer, than the Oriental. Hell, it was possibly more crowded in here than it was out on the street, which didn't help with the heat factor; seeing all the men and women pressed close together, shooting their whiskeys and sipping their scotch, only reminded Alfred of how very thirsty he was.

Technically, he wasn't even supposed to be here; he was underage (strictly speaking), and unaccompanied by a guardian. But if the barkeep had any questions, they died on his lips when his eyes met Wyatt Earp's. Apparently being led through the bar by an ex-lawman was good enough for legality today.

The whole place smelled like France, truly – the alcohol tinge wasn't so much a wine smell as a strong whiskey smell, but the cologne and perfume and cigarettes were good enough to remind him of one Francis Bonnefois.

"C'mon," Wyatt told him, taking hold of his shoulder to press him forward through the sea of people. It was hard to hear anything over the Stephen Foster music played over the piano in the corner, a woman in a wide-skirted dress singing "Camptown Races" at the top of her lungs. It was so friendly in here, so much friendlier than the boys back in Boston (anti-Expansionists), and Alfred wasn't sure why he ever doubted coming out here in the first place.

"God _damn_ it!"

The room quieted, if only for the piano player pausing to see what the noise was all about. A small group that had been quietly playing poker in the corner now seemed to be the center of attention; a stout man was standing up angrily, palms flat on the table, staring at the pile of money and at the cards disbelievingly.

"Why, Mr. Hathaway," drawled a smooth and casual southern voice, "it sounds to me like you're getting worked up over a spot of bad luck."

That voice alone was enough to make Alfred look up. Again, it was very French in its easy tone, would even be called grating if not for the simple elegance behind it. The accent said the man was the southern gentleman type, refined and well-educated, cultured in this poor little mining town. It was the sort of voice that had the heart racing, the knees buckling.

Alfred seemed to be no exception, as the accent drizzled into one ear like honey and poured easily out the other.

"Back luck?" the first man spat. "This is the seventh hand in a row! You can't be that lucky, you weaselly son of a bitch."

Alfred could see them more clearly now, as the crowd dispersed. The second man removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his mouth with it. "My word, Mr. Hathaway. Are you implying that there is perhaps something less than honorable about my hand?"

He was dressed like someone with money. He wore a black coat despite the heat, with a matching black hat, the brim wide enough to shield his eyes from the harsh Arizona sunlight. The darkness of his attire offered a stark contrast to his chalky features, the light making his clammy complexion sheen, with pink around his eyes as if from lack of sleep. In spite of these, he was also quite handsome, with a narrow sort of face, a permanent look of amusement set there.

"Christ in Heaven," he heard Wyatt grumble, "I thought he was out of town…"

"You bet your ass I am!" the first man shouted again. "You're nothin' but a dirty cheat! Just a stupid, cheating, skinny _lunger."_

Even Alfred, who had heard an array of filthy names in his lifetime, froze at that. "He just called him a…"

"I know," Wyatt said. "He'll take care of it."

And he did. Alfred watched as the second man (pale as death, thin mustache twitching as he fought off a smile) put his arm around the busty redhead in his lap, and his eyebrows rose slightly. "What an ugly thing to call me," he nearly whispered, calm as ever. "You see, I _abhor_ ugliness, Mr. Hathaway."

He tipped his face up to the woman's; Alfred saw her amused smile from under the fringes of red curls that surrounded her face. "Kate, do you believe the words out of this man's mouth? He's mistaken me for a liar and a cheater. What a character he's painted me as. How unfortunate… I did work so hard to impress him." Those eyes turned back to the accuser. "Does this mean you aren't the gentleman I originally took you to be?"

This man – Hathaway, he'd called him Hathaway – was shaking with rage and humiliation of losing the game. "You no-good little – " His meaty hands reached down for his gun, but in the next second, the sickly poker player had already flipped his own guns from their holsters and pointed them both at Hathaway warningly.

"Ah, ah, ah," he scolded. "Let's not get too hasty, sir."

Hathaway trembled, eyes staring down at the weapons even as he nervously, tentatively, set down his own. "C-c'mon, Doc… no need to get excited, not in your condition…"

Alfred felt the thrill of the potential fight more than saw it, in every bead of sweat on Hathaway's face, every little anticipating twitch of…

Doc. The sick man's name was Doc. More like his profession, he guessed, and then that soft whisper of information brushed his mind. _John "Doc" Holliday. Dentist. Suffers from tuberculosis. Married, no children._

_'Lunger.'_

Before the fight could commence, Wyatt stepped in, his face serious; but there was warmth there too.

_Oh._

"Alright, Doc, don't cause the man too much trouble," Wyatt intervened, and Alfred watched as Hathaway just sent Doc a dirty look and fled the bar. The noise of the atmosphere lifted again, the singing resumed in sweet candy melodies, men clinking their glasses together as they shared inside jokes. Wyatt put his palms flat upon the table, where Hathaway's had been moments ago. "Cheating men out of their money again?"

Alfred got the feeling that Doc did this a lot. Mentally reaching out to his people wasn't necessary here, not with the sly smile playing at Doc's mouth.

"Cheating?" Doc made a 'tsk' noise, tongue against teeth. "What a dirty accusation, Wyatt. I don't cheat – I gamble."

Wyatt smiled; it was one of the nicest and brightest that Alfred had ever seen. Also quite unexpected. That sour expression from before was gone in a flash. "Thought you and Kate were out of town."

Kate chuckled softly from Doc's lap, wrapping one of her slender pale arms around him. She was foreign, Alfred could tell that much by her accent… She sounded Hungarian when she next spoke. "And have my loving man miss the challenges of Tombstone?"

For a long moment, Alfred had nearly forgotten his own presence in the saloon. The two men looked to be so close to each other, and Alfred didn't want to come between that, but then Doc leaned over to peek over Wyatt's shoulder – his eyes met Alfred's briefly. Alfred's heart did a weird skipping half-beat in response.

"Who's this fine button that seems to be your second shadow?"

"What?" Wyatt looked back as though he, too, had forgotten Alfred was there. How nice. Apparently he was becoming his brother. "Oh. The kid."

If that hurt – the absent waving of Wyatt's hand, the dismissal in place of the protective closeness from before – it was nothing compared to Wyatt's shrug.

"He's nobody."

_Sitting alone in the tall grass, surrounded only by his animal friends, and the rabbit curled close to his slim chest, England is the only thing that dares to block the warm sunlight. England's shadow dances over America's skin like a mother's touch._

_"You won't ever have to stay here alone again, little America," England whispers, words of promise that hold him close and won't ever let him go. "I will make sure you're never lonely again."_

In the span of an hour, America had gone from being a tag-along child (humiliating, yes, but worth it if only to swallow up the attention he craved like candy) to trudging along behind Wyatt as a _nobody._ No, America wasn't a nobody, and he was about to storm right up to this so-called hero Mr. Earp and jab a fingertip into his shoulder hard enough to bruise—

Didn't get the chance, because then Doc's eyebrows rose and the corner of his lips lifted in a warm smile. "He looks like somebody to me."

And that – ah. That was something, wasn't it?

"Alfred Jones," he tried for a greeting, sticking his hand out awkwardly like he'd never introduced himself before – to presidents, to senators, to important government officials who held his life in their meaty hands. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holliday… er, or is it 'doctor'?"

Doc made an odd noise deep in his chest, and at first Alfred had the illogical idea that maybe he'd offended him – then he noted the handkerchief Doc pulled out, how he coughed into it, how Wyatt patted his slender shoulder. They really were old friends, weren't they? Alfred wished he had friends like that.

"You can just call me 'Doc,' son," he wheezed, and Alfred felt his heart lift hopefully.

* * *

Next: Alfred's theatraphobia comes into play, and Wyatt sees his Lady Satan for the first time.


End file.
